


Tasting Menu

by eigengrau



Series: Girl!Will Graham [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, Cannibalism, F/M, Genderswap, Gore, Kink Meme, Oral Sex, girl!Will Graham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-07 23:07:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eigengrau/pseuds/eigengrau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is a six-course tasting menu, laid out on his mahogany table amid spilled wine and scattered cutlery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tasting Menu

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the prompt found here: http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/1375.html?thread=17503#cmt17503
> 
> Hannibal/girl!Will, Hannibal eating her out on the dining room table. With all of the extra filthy hot wrongness that comes with who and what he is and what he's usually doing to women that end up on his dining room table.

She is a six-course tasting menu, laid out on his mahogany table amid spilled wine and scattered cutlery. One of his cut crystal glasses is rolling to a quiet halt on the carpet, and there's a fork threatening to tip over the edge and join it. Hannibal would normally never allow such a mess to be made in his dining room- his pride and joy, only one step down from the sanctum sanctorum that is his kitchen- but this is a special occasion, and he can recognize the beauty in the '52 cabernet that is pooling like dark blood under her head, soaking into her shirt, a red halo behind her messy, short curls.  
  
Will gasps, eyes closed, as his teeth close around her left nipple. Her rough small hands are in his hair and he sucks, bites gently, has to stop and restrain himself from closing his jaw all the way. He wants to taste her blood. When he lets go she hums low in the back of her throat, trying to stop herself from moaning, from crying out. Will is carefully, deliberately silent, biting her lip like she's afraid of what she might say.   
  
Will does not have to be afraid of herself.   
  
Hannibal moves up to lick at her throat, at her cheek. Her bare breasts press against his front, exposed where the buttons of her shirt have been popped open. She keeps her eyes squeezed shut, even as she pulls him closer to her.  
  
Hannibal once bit the lips off of a woman; tore them straight off when she leaned in too close. They were soft and unexpectedly meaty between his teeth, he remembers. She had ended up as a bastardized bourginon for the Baltimore Association of Cosmetic Surgeons. Her lips, however, had been all his, raw and full. He remembers chewing while she tried to scream, gums exposed, silver fillings glistening.  
  
He kisses Will on her lips, feels them against his. They are sweet and soft and she whimpers into his mouth when he tightens his grip on her hips- she will have bruises tomorrow, blue fingerprints on her pale skin.  
  
He can taste her thoughts, the cool brass of a sailor's compass. He knows that her mind is filled with blood and death and murder, with the thoughts of killers. He presses a last kiss to her mouth and moves downwards again, until he is level with her pelvis, where her thin legs dangle helplessly off the edge of the table. Her plain leather belt is already lying on the floor, and he undoes her button and fly deftly, pushing the denim of her jeans down over the swell of her hips and thighs. Her underwear is black, and does not match the bra that he stripped her of earlier. There is elastic coming out at the corners. Will is all awkwardness and fear and ungainliness. She is not particularly graceful, she is not particularly cultured. She was raised by a man who repaired motorboats for a living, dragged from state to state, and she wants to live in a world where she can be judged by the roughness of her hands and not the sharp edges of her mind. She wants simplicity, but she is not a simple person, and she knows that. Hannibal likes that about her.   
  
He can smell her, hot and wet and salty, through the worn cotton. His mouth waters.  
  
When he presses the broad flat of his tongue to the damp fabric, Will exhales sharply and fights not to arch her back. Still, her hips rise up off the table, pushing his tongue in further, harder. Her hand in his hair tightens, but does not pull. Hannibal tugs her underwear to the side and licks at her cunt, so warm. She tastes like sweat and salt and flesh, like sex and death and blood. She is earthy and deep, a rich smoothness on his tongue, and this is as close to making Will a meal as Hannibal will ever get. She is too important alive for him to waste her as pate or as an amuse-bouche for some silly little FBI agent (though the idea of serving her up to Jack Crawford, as some sweet little canapé, does make his lips quirk up in a smile). She is perfect in her imperfections, in her awkwardness, in the spiny fortresses of her mind.   
  
And, Hannibal thinks as he plunges his tongue into her, and she finally cries out, she is  _delicious_.


End file.
